


The Human Flint

by stormproofmatchgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depressing as shit, Gen, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, post 9.11 ficlet, the mark of cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormproofmatchgirl/pseuds/stormproofmatchgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell isn’t really underground. Dean’s not sure where it is, but sometimes he thinks about it like that anyways, hidden under hundreds of miles of rock. It must have been closer to the surface once, radiating heat out into this world like an old brick oven. Now it travels here in pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Human Flint

Hell isn’t really underground. Dean’s not sure where it is, but sometimes he thinks about it like that anyways, hidden under hundreds of miles of rock. It must have been closer to the surface once, radiating heat out into this world like an old brick oven. Now it travels here in pieces. Bits of molten magma hitching rides on demonic clouds of smoke, spells and hexed objects. And ain’t he special, there’s a little piece of Hell inside him now too. A Hadean flame branded into his forearm. An invitation. A compass.

_Your’re getting warmer. You’re getting warmer._

Except he isn’t. He’s stuck here, listening to dusty old vinyl. Waiting for Crowley, waiting for the key to his damnation like a teenager waiting for their turn in the bathroom on a Friday night. Sitting on his bed, staring at the ceiling, coming unhinged.

This is all he has. This mark on his skin that he can’t even decipher, and the task that comes with it. And he knows what comes after. He’s not an idiot. But at least he won’t have to worry anymore. In Hell everyone’s already dead. He spent so much goddamn time worrying about what he’d become there. But what difference does it make? He hurts people. He destroys just as much as any two-bit demon. Of what fucking consolation are his intentions to the dead?

The mark is just as raw as it was the night it wove its way through his veins and embroidered itself on his pale skin. The pain wakes him up nights, burning hotter when he dreams of Hell. He sneaks into the kitchen to get ice from the freezer or run his arm under cold water. But the relief is always fleeting. The pain won’t be chased away. Dean needs to embrace it. This is who he is now. All he touches turns to ash eventually anyways. It’s only fitting that he carries the embers inside of him.


End file.
